


On the Servants of Princes

by the_alchemist



Category: The Borgias
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 19:37:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_alchemist/pseuds/the_alchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1498. After Savonarola's death, his child followers are determined to avenge 'Padre Girolamo' and carry on his work. Overpowered by sheer strength of numbers, Micheletto is the unlucky victim of their fanaticism and brutality. Cesare finds him close to death, and has to prevail on a reluctant Machiavelli to help.</p><p>Dark, twisted, slashy hurt/comfort, with a sarcastic (but basically sympathetic) Machiavelli on the sidelines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [caras_galadhon (Galadriel)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/gifts).



_THE choice of servants is of no little importance to a prince, and they are good or not according to the discrimination of the prince. And the first opinion which one forms of a prince, and of his understanding, is by observing the men he has around him; and when they are capable and faithful he may always be considered wise, because he has known how to recognize the capable and to keep them faithful._

**Machiavelli, _The Prince_ , Chapter 22.**

 

All night long, Micheletto watched. There was something fascinating about pain, something almost beautiful.

Savonarola had been dragged from the rack as the sun set, and Micheletto had done what was necessary to stop him from dying in the night: cleaned the worst of his wounds, given him bread and water, and pulled his dislocated joints back into place. It was satisfying when mending a man hurt him as much as breaking him.

And then Micheletto watched, fascinated. Hurt a man enough, and watching his face could be exactly like watching his mind.

At last Savonarola broke the silence. "I know what you are."

"Yes?" Micheletto knelt by his cage.

"I have had your kind stoned to death ... and their corpses dragged through the streets."

"My kind?"

"Men who lay with men. Sodomites who corrupt young innocent boys who artists use as angels." His face contorted in disgust. "I have cleansed Florence of her sin."

Micheletto reached through the bars of the cage and lightly touched Savonarola's shoulder. "And yet here I am," he said.


	2. Chapter 2

The Florentine children crowded round the tattered pamphlet. "What does it say?" said Michele, jumping up and down. "What does it say?" Bianca hushed him.

Giovanni, who was the only one of them who could read, said he needed more light, so the others moved away a little.

"Yes," said Giovanni. "He was martyred. They burnt him in Rome."

Bianca put her hand over her mouth. "Poor Padre Girolamo," she said. Michele began to cry.

"None of that," said Pietro sternly. "To die a martyr's death is the greatest honour a Christian may wish for. We should be celebrating, not weeping."

Bianca nodded. "Yes," she said, pulling Michele onto her lap and kissing him on the head. "And praying that we too will one day win that crown of immortality." Her green eyes glittered with longing.

"Can I see the pictures?" said Crispino.

"Me too!" said Castor and Tomaso together.

Several grubby pairs of hands grabbed the pamplet. "It doesn't look much like him," said Castor, pointing to the lurid woodcut of a man being stretched on the rack.

"Nor does this one," said Tomaso, pointing to someone screaming on top of a bonfire.

"Well it is," said Giovanni, sulkily. "Look, it says here: G-I-R-O-L-A-M-O S-A-V-O-N-A-R-O-L-A."

"This thing was made by our enemies," said Pietro, snatching the pamphlet away. "They wanted him to look like an ugly, angry man, not a saint."

"I'll miss him so much," said Bianca.

"It's up to us to do his good work now," said Pietro.

 

It didn't take long for Micheletto to notice that the crowd of ragged boys following him around Florence was always the _same_ group of ragged boys. As an experiment, he threw them a handful of coins, then dodged quickly into a sidestreet. They didn't bother picking the coins up but continued on his tail.

After a few more minutes he spun round suddenly and picked one of the up by the collar of his shirt.

"Who are you?" he said to the wriggling, choking boy. "One of Savonarola's vermin, yes?"

"Let him go." A tall youth pushed through the crowd of younger ones. He looked like a Michelangelo angel gone to seed: boyish plumpness stretched thin with growing tall, curls lank with the grease of puberty, golden skin spotted with acne.

Micheletto laughed. He did put down the boy he was holding, and sauntered up close to the youth, then pushed him backwards with one hand. The youth staggered, limbs everywhere, but quickly regained composure and looked Micheletto steadily in the eye.

"We are the children of Christ," he said. "And we are here to do God's work.” He tried to draw a dagger, but Micheletto at once had his knife against the youth’s bobbing adam's apple. The youth swallowed hard, but there was no fear in his voice. "Kill me," he said. "Martyrdom is my dearest wish. But look around you, Micheletto Corella. Can you really kill us all?"

Then it started. Micheletto felt a sharp pain in his thigh, and they were all around him, countless as a swarm of wasps. He cut throats almost mechanically, kicking others away as he did so. This would be something to tell Cesare: his very own massacre of the innocents. The blow to the head came from behind and by surprise. As he blacked out and fell to the ground, the embarrassment hit him before the pain did, and a split second later, he lost consciousness.

 

Pietro made most of the children stay downstairs: the younger ones and the less devoted, those who had parents and homes to go back to. He wanted to keep Bianca out too, but she refused.

"It doesn't matter if I only have a girl's strength," she said. "Our strength is in Jesus Christ."

"Well, don't blame me if you're sick," said Pietro, letting her in to the big room at the top of the house Padre Girolamo had given the street children he fed and cared for. They had set it up as their torture chamber: a blazing fire with a selection of domestic fire irons beside it; ropes, knives; and, right in the centre, their prized possession: a rack which had made its way from the Medici dungeons to one of Padre Girolamo's bonfires, and which they had liberated, on the grounds of it probably not being a vanity.

It had taken four of the biggest boys to carry it up the stairs. Bianca had cleaned it up, oiled the joints and put in new ropes. Now Micheletto was firmly attached, his limbs stretched out tightly, but not yet painfully. He watched and waited, keeping his eye on the one who looked like a Michelangelo angel gone to seed – Pietro – looking for weaknesses to exploit.

Bianca checked the mechanism and ropes, and found everything to her satisfaction. She smiled.

"Beware of your pride, Bianca," said Pietro.

Bianca blushed and stepped away from the rack.

"What do you plan to do to me?" asked Micheletto.

"We're going to torture you," said Pietro. Several of the others nodded in agreement.

"Why?" said Micheletto.

"Because you're a sodomite," volunteered Crispino. "Padre Girolamo pointed you out and said you were."

"What's a sodomite?" asked Micheletto.

Crispino looked around for help. It wasn't a question he had ever thought to ask before. Giovanni stepped in. "It's a devil who corrupts innocent young boys," he said.

"And what if I told you I'd never in my life corrupted a single innocent young boy?" said Micheletto.

"You'd be lying," said Pietro. "But if you sign this confession, then we won't torture you."

He showed Micheletto a piece of paper which stated: "i am a sondomite & the Borjas are sondomite's two," written in a child's laborious hand.

"I made that," said Giovanni, proudly.

"All right," said Micheletto. "I'll sign it. But I can't sign anything when I'm tied up like this. You'll have to let me out."

"Shall we?" said Crispino.

"No," said Pietro. "It's a trick." And he stepped towards the head end of the rack and grasped the lever in both hands. "Castor and Tomaso, you take the other end."

The twins looked at one another and did as they were told.

"Turn it," said Pietro.

All three pulled. "Keep going," said Pietro, going red from the exertion. At last there was a popping sound, and a gasp of pain escaped from Micheletto's mouth. The twins let go in surprise, sending the lever spinning.

"What was that?" said Tomaso.

"It was one of his sinews breaking," said Giovanni. "That happens," he added nonchalantly. He had read all about it in the pamphlet just that morning.

"You're not supposed to stop," said Pietro.

Bianca began to feel a bit unwell, but she refused to show it. "It's easier if you use the ratchet," she said. "Look." She pointed to the lever they had to pull.

"Yes," said Pietro, glaring at her. "I was just about to say that. Let's try again."

Next time they paused, the ratchet meant that Micheletto stayed stretched. The muscles in his legs started to spasm, and he gave a long drawn-out groan.

"I don't like it," said Crispino. "Are you sure this is right? Shouldn't there be a grown-up here?"

"No," said Pietro. "The kingdom of heaven belongs to little children. It says so in the bible. Bianca, take Crispino back down."

Crispino's eyes opened wide. "I'm sorry, Pietro. I didn't mean it. Let me stay."

"Pietro?" said Castor, who was playing with fire irons. "Can we try some of the other things too?"

 

"Enough for today," said Pietro at last. "Who will watch him overnight?"

"Me," said Bianca. "Please let me, Pietro." She had been volunteering to help with things all afternoon, but Pietro kept saying she couldn't because she was a girl.

"Who would make our supper if you did that?" asked Pietro.

Bianca smiled triumphantly. "I made stew while you were all out getting him," she said. And there's fresh bread too."

Pietro thought for a moment. _He_ didn't want to have to stay up all night, and he had to admit that Bianca was less likely then the others to get talked into something stupid. "All right," he said. "I'll have someone bring you up your supper."

The boys all trooped out.

With difficulty, Micheletto twisted his head to see the girl's face. She was perhaps thirteen or fourteen, plain but not ugly, in a brown dress and a grubby linen headclout.

"You're Bianca, yes?" he said.

Bianca looked up in surprise. He hadn't spoken all afternoon. She had almost forgotten he _could_ speak.

"Yes," she said.

The door opened and one of the younger boys brought in a tray with a hunk of bread, a bowl of soup and a cup of water.

"Thank you," she said. The boy was staring at Micheletto. "It’s all right," she said, “go and play now.”

"I'm thirsty," said Micheletto, once they were alone again. "I haven't had anything to drink all day."

"Oh." Bianca came over to him with the cup of water.

"You'll need to let me sit up," said Micheletto.

Bianca thought for a moment, then shook her head. She reached in her pocket for a handkerchief, soaked it in the water and held it to Micheletto's mouth. "Don't worry," she said. "It's clean."

Micheletto sucked thirstily at the cloth. "You're a clever girl," he said. "More, please."

She soaked the handkerchief again, and squeezed the water into his mouth. "Thank you," she said. "But I'm really not. Whenever something is puzzling, I just pray and God gives me the answer."

"And your God tells you to torture me, does he?"

"Yes," she said. "Or at least, he told Padre Girolamo to, and we continue his holy work."

"And what if I said your Padre Girolamo was a fraud and a brute?"

"You would be wrong," she said. "When my mother died, the landlord kicked me and my brothers out and we had nothing. We lived in a sewer. I thought we were all going to die there, like rats. Padre Girolamo took us in, and gave us food, and taught Giovanni to read. More water?"

"Yes please," he said.

"There."

"You are kind to me."

Bianca smiled. "Kinder than you know," she said.

"Yes?" A tiny hope flickered to life in Micheletto's heart.

"Yes," said Bianca. "I will spend the night praying that all you suffer here will be of benefit to you when you're in purgatory. Shall we share my food too?"

"No. I'd only be sick."

Bianca sat down on the floor and started spooning the stew hungrily into her mouth. Since Padre Girolamo died they had less to eat, and she always served herself last. Sometimes there was nothing left.

"Bianca?" said Micheletto.

She looked up, still eating. "Yes?" she said.

"Do you know what it's like for me here?"

She considered for a moment. "I don't know whether I know that," she said. “I expect it hurts a lot. But not as much as purgatory.”

“What's the worst pain you've ever endured?"

She thought about it as she chewed on the bread. "My dad used to whip me when I was little." Her hand crept to her back, feeling old scars through the rough wool. "Or maybe it was when I had typhoid."

"Where did it hurt when you had typhoid?"

"My belly."

"Imagine if something hurt that much and more, but all over. That's what it feels like to me when those boys pull the ropes tight. Do you understand that? Can you imagine it? That's what you're doing to me."

"You called me a clever girl," said Bianca, smiling. "Please do not treat me like a stupid one."

Micheletto ignored her. "I swear to you that what you're doing to me now will haunt you until you die. When you're an old woman you will still wake up in the middle of the night, and you will hear again the sounds of my joints tearing apart, of the gristle cracking and the ligaments tearing and my screams of pain, and you will say to yourself _I did that_ , and you will never forgive yourself and you will never have a moment's true rest."

"I don't want to live to be an old woman," said Bianca. "I want to be a martyr like Padre Girolamo."

"How many martyrs can you name who have tortured others?" asked Micheletto.

Bianca frowned. "I don't know," she said. "Padre Girolamo told us about some of the crusaders. And I think St Paul tortured people before his conversion."

"But not afterwards," said Micheletto.

"No. Not afterwards."

Micheletto let these words hang and watched Bianca as she knelt and put her hands together in prayer. He was almost inclined to pray himself, since he couldn't think of anything better to do. Was this really how he was to die? It was almost funny. Would Cesare laugh, he wondered, or weep?

 

Cesare drummed his fingers on the table. Micheletto should have been back hours ago. Of course he could more than look after himself, and he was probably just with a woman or something, but Florence was a dangerous place, and Cesare's intuition told him it was time to go out and search.

He buttoned up his doublet, strapped his sword to his side and sauntered out into the Florentine street.

 

On the afternoon of the second day of torture, Pietro brought in some of the little ones who had been clamouring to have a look at their captive. They stood round in a circle. Micheletto closed his eyes, feigning unconsciousness.

"He's done a poo," observed Michele, and giggled.

"His arm looks all funny," said another of them.

 

" _Children_!?" Cesare laughed. "Well, where did they take him?"

"They've infested a house near the Basilica di Santa Croce," said the beggar.  "One of the old Medici places. But be careful, sir. They're more like savage animals than children."

"My friend can look after himself," said Cesare, tossing the beggar some coins. Poor kids, he thought, setting out for the Basilica.

 

By the end of the second day, only Pietro and Bianca were left. None of the others had admitted to feeling squeamish, but all of them had found very important things they needed to be doing elsewhere.

They stood back and watched as the body tried to buck and twitch in the impossibly tight cords.

"We should make him sign it now," said Pietro. "It's safe to untie him. Even Michele would be able to fight him off."

Bianca nodded, and released the ratchet at her end. "And then we stop," she said. "Give him a quick death. Micheletto? Micheletto?" He didn’t answer.

"Sit him up."

Bianca pulled at his shoulders. "You'll have to help me," she said. They dragged him to the floor and leant him up against a wall.

He opened his eyes. "Fuck you," he said.

"Sign this," Pietro said. "Sign this and we'll stop."

Micheletto put his head on one side and squinted. "What is it?" he asked.

"Your confession," said Bianca. "Your confession to being a sodomite."

"Sure," said Micheletto. "Hand it over."

"And your confession that the Borgias are sodomites too," added Pietro.

Micheletto opened his eyes fully, then blinked. He thought he would have been willing to sign anything. They were just children: what harm could it do?  But when it came to it? No. His last act would not be to betray Cesare. "That would be a lie," he said.

Pietro shrugged. "Well, we're going to keep on hurting you until you do."

"Or until I die," said Micheletto. "And I'm telling you as an expert in these matters that I don't have long to go."

"Help me lift him back up," said Pietro. "On his front, this time. I want to beat him."


	3. Chapter 3

Cesare climbed in the second floor window, and despite the late hour found the big room still lit by fire and candlelight. There was a young girl kneeling like a fresco of a saint at prayer. In the centre there was a table – it took a moment for his eyes to adjust – no, not a table, a rack, and Micheletto was strapped to it. Dead? Cesare felt the blood drain from his face, but no. Though every joint in Micheletto’s arms and legs was bruised and misshapen, he was still breathing.

For a second, Cesare just stood and stared, but then he recovered and dragged the girl to her feet by her hair. He held his knife to her throat.

"Don't scream or I'll kill you," he said. He put his hand over her nose and mouth to be sure. "When I take my hand away, you will tell me who did this to my friend and why."

"I did it," said Bianca. "I did it because God commanded me to through his servant and martyr Padre Girolamo Savonarola."

Cesare snarled, and pushed the knife harder against her throat, so it drew a thin line of blood. "Did you do it alone or with others?" he asked.

Bianca hesitated. She wanted to protect the boys, but didn't think it would be right to lie, so she didn't say anything.

"Answer me, you little bitch. No? Well, it doesn't matter. I'll soon find out for myself."

The knife pressed deeper. Suddenly, Bianca panicked. No. Not yet. She wanted to be a martyr, but not yet. Who would take care of Giovanni and Michele? She tried to scream "no!" but it was too late: instead it came out as a horrible gurgling sound. She felt as though she was drowning in her own blood. She fell to the ground.

Cesare kicked her out of the way and went to Micheletto. He could see it was bad: worse than what they did to Savonarola.

"Micheletto?" He cut the ropes with his knife, but Micheletto just lay there, his arms above his head.

"Micheletto?" He gently took Micheletto's left arm moved it down to his side. The way it moved felt all wrong: first too loose, and then too tight. Micheletto groaned and opened his eyes.

Cesare went to bring the right arm down too. "No," said Micheletto.

"I want to help you," said Cesare.

"Help me with your dagger in my heart," said Micheletto, breathing hard between every couple of words.

"Never," said Cesare. "It'll ... you'll ..." get better? Well, no time to think about that now. The beggar had said the house was 'infested'. There would be others downstairs, and if there were enough to capture Micheletto, then there were more than enough to capture Cesare as well. "I came along the rooftops," he said. "I can carry you." But where to? Cesare looked in despair at Micheletto's limbs. Every joint had been torn apart. To be carried even the shortest distance would be agony.

"It'll kill me," said Micheletto. "And it might kill you too, if they catch you."

"It's not far," said Cesare. But those were just words. There was no 'it', no safe place they could reach: the house where they were lodging was three miles away. Florence was a mess. With the Medicis gone and then Savonarola, it was a mass of factions vying for power, and most of them hated the Borgias

Micheletto's eyes closed. Dead? Dying? Cesare had never felt so alone. But then he heard something. Footsteps on the stairs. He leapt to the door, shut it and pushed everything he could find up against it. No more time. "I'm sorry, Micheletto," he whispered, picked him up, and with difficulty, clambered back out of the window.

But where now? He wished he knew Florence better. Cradling Micheletto in his arms he carefully walked along the flat roofs. Going anywhere was better than going nowhere. Then suddenly he stopped. He recognised the back of one of the houses, and he thought– yes! There was a way in.

 

Machiavelli leapt out of bed in his linen shirt and coif and reached for a knife as soon as he heard the window smashing. In the flickering candlelight, he saw a dark figure clamber in and stagger to a halt in front of him. Machiavelli held out the knife in both hands, trembling.

"It's me," said Cesare. "Cesare Borgia." He stepped to the bed, and laid Micheletto on it, as gently as he could.

Machiavelli followed him with his eyes and knife. "I ... can see that," he said. "What do you want, and why are you in my bedroom?"

"Oh," said Cesare, looking down at Machiavelli's bare knees and realising for the first time that he might be perceived as a threat. "Nothing. Or rather – not to hurt you. Sorry."

"Well, that's good," said Machiavelli, relaxing a little, and lowering the knife, though he still grasped it in both hands. "And I see you've brought me a corpse. That's … kind. I don't have a corpse. I'm not sure I have anywhere to keep it though, and if you'll excuse me, I don't think my bed-"

"It's not a corpse," said Cesare. "It's Micheletto."

"Oh," said Machiavelli. "Well, he looks like a corpse. And he's covered in blood and shit and God knows what else, and he's on my bed. Um … your Grace.”

"He needs help. Go for a doctor." Cesare touched Micheletto's neck, feeling for a pulse.

"I can't," said Machiavelli. "I'm somewhat ... _persona non grata_ in Florence right now. I've been confined to my house for weeks."

"I'm warning you–" Cesare grasped his knife.

Machiavelli held up his hands. " _You_ go for a doctor," he said. "Doctor Rosso, two doors down on the right. Say you're a friend of mine."

Cesare looked from Micheletto, now stirring and groaning slightly, to Machiavelli. "All right," he said. "Look after him." He left the bedroom and ran downstairs, taking them two at a time.

"Borgias!" muttered Machiavelli and sat down exasperated beside the bed.

"Borgias," slurred Micheletto in agreement.

Machiavelli looked down, surprised. He hadn't thought Micheletto would be capable of speech. He remembered him, of course: Cesare’s right hand man, dangerous and loyal. Such men were hard to come by: he could understand why Cesare wanted him to live.

"I ... don't suppose there's anything I can do for you," he said.

"Water," said Micheletto.

Machiavelli took his own cup of water from the side of the bed and wiped the rim, then hesitated. He would need to help Micheletto sit up a little. He put his hand under the pillow, lifted him slightly and held the cup to his lips.

"Ah." Micheletto spilt as much as he drank, and closed his eyes as Machiavelli gently laid his head back down.

He watched Micheletto's face. A curious face, even if you ignored the filth and sweat and blood. Blue eyes, like an angel's, opening and closing as though having them one or the other could somehow lessen the pain. Narrow jaw and wide cheekbones, like a skull. _Memento mori_ , Niccolo, Machiavelli told himself. Remember that you too will die.

"Micheletto?" No answer. It would be very awkward if he died while Cesare was gone. The Borgias were not known for their temperance in times of grief. "Micheletto? Can you open your eyes?" Machiavelli heard the back door open, and Micheletto was still breathing. "That's his former Eminence back," he said. Now at least the doctor could take the blame if – when – Micheletto's troubled soul took flight.

Cesare strode into the bedroom, Doctor Rosso scuttling behind.

"Is this him?" the doctor asked, pointing to Micheletto.

"No," muttered Machiavelli. "I _collect_ people who've had all their joints dislocated. There's another dozen in the next room."

Everyone ignored him.

"It'll hurt," said the doctor. "And he might not live even so."

"He _will_ live," said Cesare. "You will see to it that he lives."

Micheletto opened his eyes. "What's happening?" he asked.

"I've brought the doctor," said Cesare, sitting down on the side of the bed. "He can fix you."

"I didn't say that," said the doctor. "Signor Machiavelli, please be my witness that I did not say–"

"Be quiet," said Cesare. "Micheletto, you must let him help you. I'll be here, I–"

"No," said Micheletto. "You and Signor Machiavelli will go to the farthest part of the house."

"But–" began Cesare, but Micheletto interrupted him.

"When I screamed in pain, my only comfort was that you weren't there to hear me. That will not change."

Cesare didn't move, but stood staring at Micheletto. "Come on," said Machiavelli, taking him by the arm. "What would you like to drink?"

 

Machiavelli took Cesare to his parlour and poured some wine, not mixing it with water.

Cesare drank deeply and closed his eyes. Machiavelli refilled the cup. Neither spoke. After a few minutes, Machiavelli picked up a book.

"What are you doing?" asked Cesare.

Machiavelli glanced at the book and raised an eyebrow. "I thought I might read to pass the time," he said. Then: "Perhaps you would like to borrow my Boethius?"

Cesare stared up at the ceiling. Machiavelli observed that his nostrils flared when upset, and had to suppress nervous laughter.

"Tell me," sneered Cesare, looking at Machiavelli again. "What consolation has philosophy for me now? And what about him?" Cesare jerked his head upwards, and Machiavelli wasn't sure whether he was gesturing towards Micheletto or towards God.

"Nothing you don't already know," said Machiavelli. "Wheel of fortune, free will and predestination, _hac lacrimarum valle et cetera et cetera_."

"Fuck philosophy," said Cesare, after a moment's thought.

"Yes," said Machiavelli. "I'm inclined to agree there." He shut the book and refilled Cesare's wine cup.

"If he dies ..." started Cesare. "If he dies, I will ... I don't know what I will do. I'll go mad. I'll ..."

Machiavelli softly quoted something from the Iliad.

"Yes," said Cesare. "I'll out-Achilles Achilles."

Machiavelli sighed. It had been supposed to be a warning.

There was a muffled cry from upstairs. "Why didn't he want me there?" asked Cesare.

"Well, why do you think?" said Machiavelli.

They lapsed into silence.

 

It was three hours before the doctor found Cesare and Machiavelli in the parlour.

Cesare leapt up and seized the doctor's arms. "Well? What happened?"

"I did what I could."

"And ..."

"He lives. Today he lives. Tomorrow ... who knows."

Machiavelli shepherded the doctor towards the door before Cesare could reply. "Thank you," he said, pressing some coins into the doctor's hands, and leaning up to whisper in his ear: "Iif I were you I'd find some excuse to go to the countryside for a while."

Cesare raced upstairs to where Micheletto was.

 

"Micheletto."

He was in bed, his limbs stiffly bound in bandages. Cesare stripped down to his shirt and carefully got into bed beside him. "If there's anything you need, just wake me up and ask me," he said.

The two lay in silence for a few moments before Micheletto spoke. "You ... called me a stray dog once," he said.

"Yes," said Cesare, smiling at the memory. "A stray dog without a master."

"But you're my master now." It sounded as though it still hurt him to speak.

"Yes."

"And if I were a dog you'd put me down."

Cesare hesitated. "But you're not a dog," he said. "You're a man. You're my Micheletto, and I need you."

"You need what I was, not what I am, not anything I can ever be again. You need a condottiere, not a cripple."

"I need _you_."

"I'm going to be sick."

"I don't care if it sounds sentimental, it's true. I-"

"No, I mean I'm actually going to-" Then he started retching, and a thin stream of pinkish vomit gushed out of the corner of his mouth.

"Oh. Right." The retching got more violent, and with difficulty, Cesare manoeuvred Micheletto into a half-sitting position, then slid behind him to support his body with his own. Micheletto rested his head back against Cesare's chest with a terrible gasping, gurgling sound, then threw it forward and was sick again. Despite the violence of the motion, nothing came out but a few dribbles of liquid.

"Finished?" said Cesare.

"For now."

Cesare took out his handkerchief, dipped it in the cup of water, and wiped Micheletto's beard as best he could.

"I think …" said Micheletto, with difficulty.

"Yes?" said Cesare.

"I think that when you asked me to _wake_ you … if I needed … anything … you were being … optimistic."

"I'm here for you. Like you'd be here for me, I'm here for you."

 

Machiavelli was sitting at the breakfast table writing yet another letter asking – no, he had to confess it – _begging_ for a job. The door opened and in walked Cesare.

"How was your night?" asked Machiavelli, not looking up.

"Long," said Cesare. "And messy."

"He's still alive though?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's good." Machiavelli made an effort to sound as though he meant it. "Breakfast?"

Cesare nodded. "For Micheletto, yes."

"Francesca?" Machiavelli called in a maid, who curtsied shyly to both men. "We have a guest. Two guests. One of them is sick and in my bed. Find out what he wants to eat and serve it to him, and you'll probably need to change the sheets too."

Francesca curtsied again and smiled at Cesare before bustling out.

"Well," said Machiavelli. "I'm sure you'll both be wanting to get back to Rome as soon as possible."

"Once Micheletto can move, yes," replied Cesare. "But that could be weeks."

Before Machiavelli could reply, Francesca came running in. "A messenger for you, sir," she said, directly to Cesare. "Says he's been trying to track you down for days."

Cesare frowned and got up. "I won't be long," he said.

Left alone, Machiavelli put his head in his hands. It was going to be a long few weeks.

When Cesare returned, he didn't sit down. "I need to go," he said. "Back to Rome. Right now." He was shaking.

"Oh!" Machiavelli perked up. "Well, of course I'll help you. You'll need some kind of carriage, I suppose-"

"What?" Cesare frowned. "Oh. No. We can't move Micheletto yet. He'll have to stay here."

"How long will you be?"

"I don't know. Weeks? Months maybe? I need to go back to Rome and then to France. It's ... business. A negotiation. I'll send you money, of course. You can hire a sick nurse. Micheletto is good company, I'm sure you'll be fine. Just …" His voice softened. "Look after him? Please?"

"But-"

"And remember, if he dies, I shall be very upset indeed."

"I-"

"I'm going to say goodbye to him now, but I'll write. I'll write to both of you."


	4. Chapter 4

As soon as his father could spare him, Cesare rushed to Lucrezia's bedchamber, and, lying down beside her, told her what had happened.

"Poor Cesare," she said, stroking his head. "Poor Micheletto. But he'll get better, yes?"

"I hope so."

"I know so. You're ... very fond of him, aren't you?"

"Yes, very," said Cesare. "I don't think I realised how much until ... until this."

"And he loves you too."

"He would die for me." Cesare took his sister in his arms. "Lucrezia, can I tell you a secret?"

"Of course!" She nuzzled his neck.

"I ... nearly didn't come. When the messenger came, my first thought was fuck Rome, fuck the papacy, fuck the family, I'm staying here with my Micheletto."

"But you did come."

"Evidently."

"Well, that's all right then. And Micheletto is still waiting for you in Florence. When you've finished negotiating this treaty, you can bring him back to Rome and have all the fun with him you want."

Cesare laughed for the first time in a week. "I'm not sure Micheletto _does_ ‘fun’," he said.

 

Cesare was to negotiate a treaty with the King of France, to form an alliance to conquer Naples, but wasn't allowed to leave before a week of briefing from his father's officials. He felt like a schoolboy again as various black-gowned academics were wheeled out to lecture him on history and geography, while he stared out of the window, his heart and mind still in Florence.

It felt good when he could at last get on the road, though travelling with his official entourage was frustratingly slow compared to galloping along the country lanes with Micheletto. When they passed the road to Florence, he came within a hair's breadth of turning off.

Although the negotiations moved at a snail's pace, they were at least less boring than Cesare had expected. The King wanted his marriage annulled, and instead of relying on his wife's family relationship to him (they were ... somethingth cousins something removed, or maybe they weren't – no-one really seemed sure) or the fact she was very young when they married, the King insisted that they had been physically unable to consummate their marriage, because poor Queen Joan was interestingly shaped in some relevant parts of her body. There were witnesses. There were lengthy descriptions. There were even – God help poor Queen Joan – _diagrams_.

Of course, Cesare needed the treaty and so would have granted the annulment whatever the grounds, and indeed was just about to when King Louis said there was another thing too. Joan was a witch, he said, and had cursed him with impotency.

Joan, who was holding up better than anyone could expect, asked to be allowed to speak and then asked King Louis how, if _he_ were impotent, he could be expected to know whether or not _she_ were capable of consummating the marriage.

Cesare put his head in his hands as more courtiers stood up and restarted the debate. Under the guise of taking notes, he continued a letter he had been writing to Micheletto.

He wrote to Micheletto and Machiavelli once a week, and eagerly awaited the replies, though they usually arrived weeks late, and never said much of interest. Machiavelli wrote pages and pages, mostly of unsolicited advice and quotations in Greek and Latin. Micheletto always dictated a few lines at the end, which so studiously avoided any mention of his state of health or mind, that Cesare didn't dare ask. He wondered though, day and night. And why didn't Micheletto write himself? Were his hands still too badly wounded?

It took months to agree everything, but at last Cesare could think about leaving: his entourage back to Rome, but he straight to Florence.

 

It was just before dawn when Cesare arrived at Machiavelli's house. Seeing a light on in the kitchen, he let himself in through the back door. There was a woman he hadn't seen before sitting at the table and reading: a nun in the apron of a sick nurse.

She looked up from her book when she saw him. "You're too late, I'm afraid," she said, pleasantly.

"Too late for what?" said Cesare, suddenly afraid. "Tell me."

"He's dead."

No. Cesare felt like he'd been punched. "Where's Signor Machiavelli? Bring him to me."

"He's still out," said the nun. "He went to throw the body in the Arno."

"What?" Cesare clenched his fist and drew it back.

The nun stood up and stepped away from Cesare, eyes widening with fear. "Wait," she said. "Who are you? You're not the doctor. Don't hit me, sir. Let me fetch Signor Corella."

"Signor … but you said he was dead."

The nun furrowed her brow. "No, sir. _He's_ not dead. The burglar he stabbed is dead."

The kitchen door opened.

"Micheletto," said Cesare, savouring the sound of the name and the sight of his face.

"Your Grace." Micheletto smiled a quick half smile that reminded Cesare of Machiavelli, walked to the kitchen table and sat down, steadying himself on the wall for the first couple of steps but then walking alone.

"I'll buy you a new walking stick tomorrow," said the nun. "A sturdier one. One that can kill people without breaking." She gave a tight smile. Cesare was unsure whether or not she was joking.

"Thank you," said Micheletto, not looking at her, but at Cesare.

Cesare found he was shaking. He felt like an idiot. There were so many things he wanted to ask, and he couldn't ask any of them. Does it still hurt? Are you angry with me? Will you come back to me? He tried to read the answers in Micheletto's face and sought for something easier to say.

"You killed a burglar," he said. "Congratulations."

Micheletto nodded. "Signor Machiavelli wouldn't let me finish him off. He said we had to get a doctor, but the man died anyway and–" He looked down, ashamed. "It seems I'm not quite up to disposing of my own bodies yet."

The back door opened. Machiavelli came in, disguising his face with a deep hood, which he threw back as soon as he shut the door. "I thought burglars were supposed to be skinny," he said, sitting down, then looked around. "Oh. Your Former Eminence."

"Good day to you," said Cesare.

Machiavelli smiled his half smile, then turned to Micheletto. "How's your wrist?" he asked.

Micheletto held out his left hand and Machiavelli gently massaged the joint. "Not so bad," he said. "But I'm not sure you ought to be strangling people yet."

"I thought you _stabbed_ the burglar," said Cesare. He felt something like jealousy at the easy intimacy between the other two men.

"This was someone else," said Micheletto.

"Micheletto's been helping me with my work. Did I tell you I've got a job now? I work for the Republic of Florence. But I'm forgetting my manners. What does one offer a guest who drops in at four o'clock in the morning? Wine? Breakfast? Bed?"

"I'm very tired," said Cesare, still not taking his eyes away from Micheletto.

"Well, let me see," said Machiavelli. "Micheletto still has the master bedroom, and Sister Agatha here is in one of the spares, so-"

"I'll share with Micheletto," said Cesare.

"Yes," said Machiavelli. "Of course. Yes."

 

"How was the negotiation?" asked Micheletto, sitting down on the bed and starting to undress.

"Fine," said Cesare. "Good. I never thought it would be possible to spend a month sitting in court with a dozen lawyers discussing a cunt."

"Who–"

"No, an actual cunt. I'll tell you about it later." He flashed a smile. "I missed you." He pulled off his doublet and then his hose, and finally pulled his shirt over his head.

"I missed you too, your Grace. Very much. I–" He hesitated, then untied his shirt and pulled it over his head. "I owe you my thanks," he said.

"Thanks?" said Cesare.

Micheletto was thinner than he had been, and his torso was a network of scars. On his back those he, Cesare, had inflicted himself, on his front many others.

"For saving me." Micheletto looked down and wouldn't meet his eyes. "And for looking after me when ... after ..." He brushed his hand across his face. "I never thought I'd have a Duke wiping vomit off my chin."

Cesare grinned. "I was right then?" He edged a little closer to Micheletto.

"What?" Their eyes met again.

"You're glad I saved you."

Micheletto hesitated for several seconds before speaking. "I think that's a question you'd do better not to ask," he said.

Cesare kissed him then, hard, on the lips. There was anger in the gesture, but consolation too. He drew back again, frowning.

Micheletto was breathing hard and fast. "What did you do?" he said. "Why did you do that?"

Cesare didn't know what to say, so he did it again, and this time Micheletto responded, seizing Cesare by the back of the neck and pushing deeply into his mouth. Each tried to push the other back onto the bed, but neither succeeded, so they broke away, gasping. They sat and stared at one another for a few moments.

"Sorry," said Cesare.

" _Sorry?_ " said Micheletto.

"I was angry. I didn't think you'd ... I shouldn't have ... I'm just sorry, all right?" He put his hand on Micheletto's thigh.

"But not for kissing me?" Micheletto's hands were by his sides, and his gaze was solemn, mistrustful.

"No, not for that."

 

They slept coiled around one another like snakes, and Cesare felt at peace for the first time since ... he couldn't remember when. They awoke late and slowly, lingering in drowsy half-dreams and enjoying one another's skin and smell.

"So," said Cesare, stretching. "Does it seem like a good day for revenge to you?"

Micheletto looked puzzled for a moment. "Oh," he said. "Yes. Revenge."

"Only I need to be back in Rome within the week."

Micheletto did that half-smile again. "You know," he said. "I think if I've learnt one thing from all of this it's that the endless cycle of vengeance is a fool's game, and the only winner is the one who decides to end it."

Cesare frowned. "Really?" he said.

"No, of course not."

 

The House by the Basilica Santa Croce was empty when Cesare and Micheletto forced their way in, and it smelt very bad. They went from room to room, finding nothing but soiled blankets, abandoned bowls and cooking pots, and the occasional rat.

The door to the attic room was locked from the inside, but the wood was rotten, so they easily broke it down. The rack was still there, and hanging from the rafters there was a body that Micheletto could just recognise as Pietro’s.

Cesare put his handkerchief to his face: the smell was overpowering.

 

After the house, the dirty street smelt like a meadow full of flowers. Cesare accosted a beggar. “What happened in there?” he asked.

“Cholera,” said the beggar. “They took the bodies yesterday. I’d stay well away if I were you.”

Cesare turned to Micheletto. “Shall we hunt for survivors?” he asked.

Micheletto shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’ve had enough of Florence. I want to go.”

Their eyes met, but Micheletto swiftly lowered his. “What is it?” said Cesare.

“I’m not coming back to Rome,” said Micheletto, still not looking up. “I think I’ve outlived my usefulness to you.”

“That’s not true,” said Cesare.

“Well,” said Micheletto. Cesare waited for him to go on, but that seemed to be it.

“Where would you go?” asked Cesare.

“With respect, your Grace, that would no longer be any of your business.”

Quick as a flash, Cesare drew his dagger and held it to Micheletto’s throat. “You will stay with me,” he said.

Micheletto sighed. “Your Grace–“ he began, then darted his hand up and sent the dagger plummeting to the floor. He sighed again. “You let me do that,” he said, picking up the dagger and handing it to Cesare.

“You could have done it anyway,” said Cesare.

Micheletto didn’t answer, but started walking.

“Wait,” said Cesare. Micheletto stopped and turned. “Come back to Rome with me and decide then. I can’t find anyone else in Florence, can I? What are you doing?”

“I dislocated my wrist when I disarmed you. I’m putting it back.”

Cesare came up close to him. “Let me see,” he said. “Can I help? Looks like it might be easier with two hands?”

Micheletto paused. “I’ll have to show you how,” he said.

 

Cesare and Micheletto sat on horseback watching the guards haul shut the heavy gates of Florence.

“Rome then?” said Cesare. Micheletto had gone with Cesare to buy horses, but had given him no definite decision about his destination. Micheletto didn’t answer.

“Please, Micheletto?”

“There’s a condition,” said Micheletto.

“Anything.”

“We don’t talk about … what happened.

“What happened?”

“Florence. The rack. The Latin grammar drills.”

“The–“

“I think Machiavelli was bored. He decided to educate me.”

Cesare smiled. “Of course not, I won’t say a thing.”

“Rome then,” said Micheletto.

“And last night,” said Cesare. “Did that happen?”

But Micheletto had spurred on his horse. Cesare followed, spurring his horse faster, and they raced towards the road for Rome.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my lovely beta reader, E.


End file.
